


A sort of homecoming

by elzed



Category: Friday Night Lights, Supernatural, Supernatural/Friday Night Lights crossover
Genre: F/M, Multi, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-15
Updated: 2010-12-15
Packaged: 2017-11-04 11:37:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/393405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elzed/pseuds/elzed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not the slashiest of threesomes...<br/>Betaed by that queen of betas, overnighter.</p><p>Spoilers: Mid season 2 for FNL, season 3 for SPN.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A sort of homecoming

There’s grit in every fold of Sam’s check shirt, grit in his hair, grit in his eyes, sand in the creases of his skin, dust everywhere. His mouth feels drier than the parched scrubland they’re currently driving through, the last real sleep he had was twenty-four hours ago and Dean’s _still_ driving. He’s a picture of concentration; one hand welded to the steering wheel, sunglasses a mask over his eyes – always on the road – to the extent that Sam wonders whether his brother’s perfected the art of driving in his sleep. 

It’s unnatural, and he’s beginning to wonder whether Dean’s possessed or something, because he’s barely uttered a word in the past two days, and that can’t all be due to what happened back in Pittsburgh with that fucking ghoul. There was nothing either of them could have done to save the woman, and Dean has to know it. At least thanks to them that _thing_ isn’t preying on hapless locals anymore.

Obviously that’s not enough for Dean’s obsessive nature, which is why they’re headed to some shitty backwater West Texas town in search of this guy who knows more about ghouls than Bobby and Ellen put together, but who isn’t answering his phone. Privately Sam thinks the guy’s probably gone, or dead, but if Dean wants to exorcise his bad feelings by driving through the night playing Metallica, let him. Not that Sam can stop him anyhow.

********************************

Dillon’s like every other small Texas town they’ve ever stopped in: scattered outskirts coalescing into a few dusty, wide, sunbaked streets; pickup trucks cruising slowly through the town, driven by men with cowboy hats and suspicious eyes; bue and white banners displayed in shop windows; proclaiming _Go Panthers_ proudly from the drugstore and the gas station.

“Texas, man,” Dean mutters – the first words to pass his lips in at least eighty miles. “These guys are just fucking obsessed with high-school football.”

Sam nods.

“Well, we’ve lucked out – the local team made it to the state championships. At least they can play.”

“Since when do you give a shit about football?” Dean cocks an eyebrow over the rim of his sunglasses, and Sam shrugs.

“I don’t – I can read,” Sam points out. At least three windows in the past hundred yards have sported “Panthers Win State” signs. “But since you ask, yeah, being forced to watch ESPN in motel rooms by my ass of a brother has given me kind of an edge. Better than the lame porn you mainline when you think I’m sleeping though. That really blows. Can we stop? I’m hungry and I need to piss.”

They pull over in an Applebee’s parking lot – Dean’s choice, Sam was angling for Chinese. No such luck. Inside is pretty quiet, a couple of old guys in the back, a middle-aged woman – “Nice tits,” comments Dean – sipping coffee in a booth, and a tall blonde waitress cleaning tables – “Nice _ass._ ”

Then she turns around and Sam feels the walls closing in on him in a swirl of cheerful Applebee’s red and green. It’s Jess.

He blinks and turns to Dean, hoping for a blank stare but Dean is transfixed by the girl, too, mouth gaping open in shock.

“The fuck? Dude, I’m not hallucinating…”

Sam shakes his head.

The girl is clearing another table, and as she moves about he can see she doesn’t carry herself like Jess – she’s lankier, her gestures spare where Jess’s were expansive. There are a few more small differences – she’s tanner than Jess, who never went in the sun; her hair’s straight, and it makes her face look thinner.

But it’s all details – in every other respect, she _is_ Jess.

The waitress must have clocked their joint stares at long last because she’s stopped her cleaning and striding across the restaurant towards them. She doesn’t walk like Jess, either, which is a relief, but Sam’s stricken to see the resemblance doesn’t fade as she gets closer. She can’t be Jess, no, but he’s wondering whether she’s some kind of demon, or maybe a spirit haunting him.

Other than the freakish resemblance, she seems pretty normal.

“Can I get you guys anything? Coffee?” Her Texas accent jars, but the tones are the same underneath, and Sam recognizes annoyance under the smile. When their eyes meet he feels something tearing inside – mixed relief and renewed pain – and the memories come flooding back past the barrier he erected in his mind two years ago, grief spinning in their wake. It hurts, God, it hurts.

He’s struck dumb, reeling under the onslaught.

“Coffee would be great, sweetheart,” Dean finally says, and Sam can tell how much of an effort his brother is making because he’s not even trying to flirt with her, his voice devoid of any saucy or suggestive tone.

“What about something to eat? We have some great Texas-style barbecued babyback ribs today…”

“Sounds good. Fries and slaw?”

“You bet.”

He looks over at Sam, who’s still caught in the maelstrom of not-Jess angst, speechless.

“ Make that two. And two coffees. Please.”

Her eyes meet Sam’s as she walks away and drops the smile. He blinks, suddenly aware of his slackjaw posture, tries to pull himself together. There’s a nametag on her breast. Tyra. Not Jess. Tyra.

“Man, this is weird,” Dean mutters when she’s out of earshot. “You okay?”

“I don’t know,” Sam says. “I don’t even know if she’s real or not…”

“She doesn’t look like a ghost, Sammy.”

“…and I don’t know whether that makes it any better.”

“Maybe Jess has a twin, separated at birth…”

Sam groans.

“Fuck off, Dean.”

“Hey! Hey – I’m sorry you’re freaked, okay? We can go somewhere else if you want.”

No. He doesn’t want to go somewhere else, he wants to stay right here and stare at Tyra-not-Jess as long as he possibly can, find out everything he can about her. Maybe even pretend that she _is_ Jess, who mysteriously survived the yellow-eyed-demon and is leading a new undercover life in Dillon, Texas.

“’S’okay.” He sinks back into his seat, tries not to stare when she comes back with the coffee, fails. When he looks up into narrowed blue eyes, he feels a blush rising and drops his gaze back to the floor. Fuck. Busted.

“Am I supposed to know you from somewhere?” She doesn’t sound as annoyed as she did earlier, more curious than anything else.

“No, I’m sorry...” he mumbles. “It’s just – you look like someone I used to know.”

“Oh.”

He tilts his head up again. So beautiful. Her expression is softer, less guarded. “Let me guess – an ex?”

You’ve got to hand it to her, she’s ballsy.

He nods. Yes. Ex. Late would be more accurate but he’s going to let it slide, because he doesn’t want to freak out beautiful Tyra-not-Jess, he wants her to like him, to let him gaze at her for hours on end, maybe even touch her now and then.

Fuck, he’s a sick puppy.

Dean is uncharacteristically silent until the food arrives, then focuses on his plate, cleaning it out. Sam pokes at his ribs, his appetite curtailed by the whole doppelganger situation.

He’s still picking at stray fries when Dean excuses himself and comes back a few minutes later with his EMF reader. Sam raises an eyebrow at him.

“Now? Here?”

“As good a time as any, bro. Just a quick sweep.” Which Dean conducts efficiently and relatively discreetly – enough to satisfy him, and Sam, that the waitress is no ghost. Or demon, apparently, because she doesn’t flinch when Dean flicks a few drops of holy water onto her arm, just shakes it off and frowns at the ceiling, searching for a source.

Sam makes sure to leave a fat tip when they leave, but resist the urge to scribble his digits on the bill. Later, he wishes he had.

 

***************************

 

Sam Winchester has an in-depth relationship with the surreal, the creepy, the downright weird – in fact the whole spectrum that runs from mildly improbable to no fucking way – but he’s struggling to wrap his head around the whole Jess/not Jess situation.

But if there’s anything he’s learned in his years of hunting, it’s to have an open mind. So maybe Jess does – _did_ – have a doppelganger somewhere, and that somewhere is here, and that sometime is now, and the doppelganger is Tyra.

He’s listening to Dean run through their encounter with the ghoul to Elwood, the expert rec’d by Bobby, who turned out to be very much in town, just slack about answering his phone, or maybe paranoid – it’s not clear. The experience isn’t one Sam particularly wishes to recall, so he focuses on their surroundings instead, which isn’t much of a strain since Elwood elected to meet them in a strip joint.

The light is tinged with red, dim over the bar and the seating area, brighter on stage where a couple of girls are going through their paces, writhing around a pole for the entertainment of the thin crowd. He’s trying not to look – unlike Dean, Sam has a problem relating to women purely as sex objects.

Then again, anything is better than revisiting Pittsburgh, so he focuses on the gyrations of a limber blonde with a mischievous look whose feather boa tickles his nose provocatively during a swing around the pole. She smirks at him after that, in a way that Sam almost finds endearing, a million miles from the dead-eyed look many strippers sport in places like this. He should know – Dean’s dragged him to enough of them in the course of their travels.

Sometimes Sam wishes he could get into it, forget the nightmares that he confronts day after day – and night after night, in his dreams, as if the gory reality wasn’t enough. He wishes he could forget that Dean only has ten months to live, and that despite their combined best efforts they’ve so far failed to find a way to break the bitch demon’s hold on his brother’s soul.

Looking at a nice pair of breasts won’t stop the fear and despair, but it just might make him think of something else for a while, like how long it’s been since he’s touched a woman, or even dared to think about it, seeing as his track record is pretty dismal. “Fuck Sam Winchester and die” is how it reads these days, although since _he_ died a couple of months back, he can’t help but wonder whether he’s broken that jinx. At any rate, he’s at least willing to give it a try again. It all pales in comparison with the sword of Damocles hanging over Dean’s head.

Unsurprisingly, Dean has noticed the girl too, and Sam can tell that Elwood’s extensive ghoul lore is losing its appeal by the minute. Which is good, because it probably means Dean is returning to normal, that he’s finally accepted that it’s not his fault, that they did everything they could, and that he couldn’t possibly have saved another soul at the cost of his own. The old hunter’s probably had enough of the Winchesters too, because he’s stood up and is shaking hands with Dean.

Just then, the song stops with a flourish, and so does the dance. Sam admires the perfect arch of the stripper’s back, breasts pointing straight up, one leg wrapped around the pole in what seems like a remarkable display of athleticism, not to mention of well-groomed not-so-private parts, and he reluctantly admits that his cock is slightly interested in the proceedings.

Not as much as Dean’s, however.

The stripper’s gathering the skimpy clothes she ditched earlier when Dean steps up to the stage, holding out a folded note which she palms and tucks away somewhere – Sam can’t imagine _where_ – gives Dean a quick once-over and then shoots Sam another sideways glance. Huh.

“Hey sweetheart, can I buy you a drink if you’re done?” Dean asks.

“These your friends, Elwood? Can I trust them to behave like gentlemen?”

“Can’t say for sure, Mindy, but I knew their dad and he always knew how to treat a lady. You make sure to tell me if they don’t.” As Elwood leaves the table, he directs a stare at Dean that Sam can read clear as day – _don’t you dare misbehave, son._

An image pops into Sam’s mind, unbidden – John and Elwood getting friendly with a couple of strippers, shots of whisky lined on the bar, beer chasers on the side – and he shakes his head to clear it. Dean’s grimace indicates that the thought had hit him, too.

“You guys brothers? I wouldn’t have guessed. Then again, no-one ever thinks I look like my sister. She’s too freaking tall for a start.”

Dean laughs easily. “I know where you’re coming from,” and he nods at Sam – who’s still seated but gangly-looking enough for Mindy to get the picture.

“You’re what, six-four?” she guesses.

“You’re good, lady,” Dean says.

Sam can tell he definitely _is_ trying to get into her pants, or would if she were wearing any.

“There’s a lot of leg showing here,” she says, pointing at Sam’s denim-clad lower extremities sprawled out beyond the table. “Enough to make a girl wonder whether he’s built in proportion…” This time the look she flashes at Sam is purely lasciviousness, and he’s grateful for the cover of the table. She’s not really his type, but she’s hot, and naked, which is a hell of a lot closer to sex than anything he’s experienced in the past several months – and he really doesn’t want to think about what happened the last time.

“Size isn’t everythin’, darlin’,” Dean drawls, and they both burst out laughing, which leaves Sam feeling like he’s the butt of the joke, somehow. “So what’s your poison?”

“7&7, thank you. And I’m Mindy,” she says. “You?”

“Dean. This here is my _baby_ brother Sam.” That brings a smile to her face, and Sam sighs inwardly. He wishes Dean could stop using him as a foil when flirting with girls. It gets old, quick.

Somewhat to Sam’s relief – and Dean’s disappointment – another girl brings Mindy a robe (purple silk, indecently short, but still a lot more than nothing) and takes away her costume (if two scraps of glittery satin and a feather boa qualify). Sideways glances notwithstanding, Mindy seems to have taken a shine to Dean, perhaps encouraged by their shared experience with insolently tall younger siblings, or by Dean’s willingness to tell dirty jokes at the drop of a hat.

Or maybe it’s just his brother’s effortless charm and sex appeal, which Sam has yet to fathom.

“Well, if it ain’t the muscle car boys.”

The Texas twang is what gets Sam – in the split second before he remembers her face, he just falls for her voice, hook, line and sinker – and emerges to find Tyra looking quizzically at him, eyebrow cocked. Looking freaking tall, and gorgeous, and not much like a younger version of Mindy at all.

Of course Dean _had_ to hit on not-Jess’s sister.

Since they got into town this afternoon, they’ve spoken to three people – maybe four if you count the barman – and it turns out two of them are siblings.

Sam hates small towns.

“So what about this ride home, Mindy?” Tyra says, and the pleading look her sister shoots her isn’t exactly promising. Seems Dean may have scored with the stripper (like no-one saw that one coming) and Sam senses an opportunity.

“I, uh, could give you a ride. Seeing as these two…” He gestures vaguely and tails off.

Tyra’s chewing on her lower lip – sexily, as it happens – and she’s obviously weighing her options. There’s some vague muttering coming from Dean’s direction that Sam is resolutely ignoring. Big brother or not, he can’t get the girl AND the car (and also expect Sam to cool his heels outside the motel room for hours, as is more than likely).

“Well I wouldn’t say no to a spin in that baby,” she concedes with an unexpectedly shy grin, eyes down, hair falling in her face, and Sam’s stomach does a little flip. He pushes his chair back and stands. Mindy wasn’t bullshitting about tall siblings – Tyra’s almost as tall as Dean - as tall as Jess - and judging by the expression on her face, she appreciates the extra inches Sam has on his brother.

“Excuse me a moment,” Sam says, and he leans over Dean, fishing the motel keys from his pocket as he does.

“Trade you these for the car’s?” he says quietly, with a tacit acceptance that this might be where he ends up sleeping. Thank God he had a shower earlier and a nap otherwise the prospect of another night in the Impala might just kill him. Dean’s jaw is tight with annoyance but he nods and hands over the keys. _Deal._

“Don’t you do anything stupid,” Mindy whispers behind his back, and he hears her sister’s exasperated snort.

“Yeah, sis – like you’re not about to go back to this guy’s room.”

“Tyra!” she hisses.

“Don’t worry, I can look after myself,” Tyra says dismissively as she reaches across the table and grabs the half-drunk 7&7, taking a quick swig. “And I promise I’ll call you if I’m late, okay? Or leave you a message for when you can, you know, spare the time to check it. C’mon, let’s go, big guy. I don’t want to be still here when these two start making out like monkeys.”

“It’s Sam,” he says as he lopes after her through the bar, a shit-eating grin plastered across his face. Time to skedaddle and leave the elder siblings to their flirting. Somewhere in the back of his mind he wonders if it’s such a good idea to take off with Jess’s double, but he focuses on her ass sashaying ahead of him in tight jeans and the doubts wither away.

“I don’t suppose you’d ever let me drive that baby,” Tyra says casually as they approach the Impala and Sam snorts with involuntary laughter.

“Honestly? I’m not really in the market for a sex change.”

“Huh? Oh – you mean your brother…”

“Would totally have my balls. No offense, Tyra, but it’s not like he lets me take the wheel all that often, and he’s the guy who taught me to drive.”

“Maybe that’s the problem,” she says, sly, and he has to laugh at how she won’t give up. Sam shakes his head, still grinning, as he opens the passenger door for her and then circles the car and gets in.

“ So, where to, Miss?”

“Well if you won’t let me drive it, will you at least take me for a spin? Makes a change from my old truck,” she says, unfolding long limbs in the confined space, her elbow grazing Sam’s in the proceeds. He tears his eyes away from her, stares outside at the dusty dark, at the few patrons pulling into the parking lot, most of them driving pickup trucks in various stages of decrepitude.

“Yours and everyone else’s,” he says as he turns on the ignition. “So which way do I head – left or right?”

“Well… left gets you out of town and on the highway to Austin, right takes you through Dillon and out the other end towards the old oilfields – it’s a hard choice, Sam.”

“If we go right, will you show me the sights?”

She laughs, a short, bitter bark. “That shouldn’t take long.”

He’s heard that tone before. It sends him right back to high school – memories of bored and frustrated teens itching to escape from their small town lives, their discontent almost incomprehensible to a boy desperate for roots and continuity, for a life that doesn’t involve packing everything up and driving off every few months.

Then again, sixteen years of living somewhere like Galesburg, Illinois or Huron, South Dakota and Sam would have been clawing at the walls too. Dillon, Texas is probably no different.

“You don’t like it here much, do you?” he asks as he pulls out of the parking lot and turns right.

Tyra snorts.

“You can say that again. I’ve been dreaming of escape since I was eight.”

“What happened when you were eight?” He’s curious – it’s such a precise point in time.

“They closed the oilfields and my daddy lost his job.” Tyra pauses. “Then he started drinking and hitting my mom and she kicked him out. Haven’t seen the bastard in ten years.” Her voice is rough and he focuses on the road ahead, doesn’t look at her, lets her wipe a tear in peace. So she’s eighteen, sounds like. He doesn’t know if he should be relieved or worried, but he’s beginning to think like Dean, and that’s downright disturbing.

“I’m sorry. That sucks.”

“Don’t be. I’m lucky he got out of my life before he started whaling on me.”

They cruise in silence for a couple of minutes, until the Impala stops at a stoplight opposite a car dealership.

“Oh, can’t miss this – one of the prime sights of the town of Dillon: Buddy Garrity’s auto dealership,” Tyra says with forced jollity.

“Quite the Panthers’ fan.” The whole forecourt is decked in blue and white flags and gold ribbons, banners propped at every corner.

“Yeah, well, he’s head booster. You cut Buddy, he bleeds blue and white. Mind you, that’s probably true of most guys here. Another reason to hate this place.”

“Not a football fan, then?”

“No! But it’s so much part of life here – hell, I’ve dated some of the team, and I probably know more about football than you do.”

“That wouldn’t be so hard,” Sam says, and they exchange a smile.

“I knew there was something about you I liked,” she jokes, and he wonders whether there could be more to it than jest. There’s something about Tyra’s vulnerability – hidden behind a wall of sassiness – that he finds hard to resist. Besides, the more he listens to her, the less she reminds him of Jess. Which has to be a good thing.

“So, enough about me – what’s the deal with you and your brother anyhow? You guys can’t be vacationing over here.”

Sam’s been bracing himself for this for a while now but he still hates lying to her, especially when she’s being so candid. He shrugs. “We work together – investigators. We travel across the country a lot.”

“Investigators? What, like private detectives?”

“Try insurance. We’re… fraud experts.” Always stick as close to the truth as you can is the mantra. It works. He hopes it’ll tally with whatever Dean’s spinning Mindy, but the investigator story is generally their default setting. Besides, he doubts those two will be doing much talking. “Pretty technical stuff.”

“So, where do you guys come from?”

He chooses to interpret that one literally, in a bid to avoid tricky questions about where they’re going next.

“Kansas. Lived there for a few years, and then my dad moved around a lot after my mom died, never quite settled down again. So, everywhere and nowhere, really.”

“Man, you must think I’m a real brat to complain about Dillon,” she says after a pause. “Sounds like you might have liked getting bored in the same place for years on end.”

Sam’s startled by how close to the truth she is, and realizes he better be careful about what he tells her, because she obviously listens.

“Hey, let me get you a milkshake to make up for it. Take the next right.”

Sam’s about to suggest a beer instead when he remembers her age and nods. This whole thing is making him slightly uncomfortable (not least when he acknowledges that clinging to the “I was eight, ten years ago” mantra to assume she is indeed legal involves a touch of wishful thinking).

“Over here,” she says.

It’s a classic looking diner with a bright red sign blinking in the night, a couple dozen cars in the lot, the Impala failing to blend in with the pickup trucks and station wagons.

“I promise – best shakes in Dillon. And pretty damn good burgers if you’ve still got an appetite after this morning. Way better than anything we serve at Applebee’s.”

He pushes the door open and the décor has an endearing fifties feel- all shiny chrome, blue walls with a checkered black-and-white trim, and comfortable leather booths. All that’s missing is a doo-wop soundtrack playing on the Wurlitzer instead of the R’n’B lite that’s being piped through the sound system. A table of high-school seniors in polo shirts with their ponytailed girlfriends keeps the illusion going – until one girl stands to leave, exposing a generous stretch of tanned midriff, complete with pierced bellybutton. So much for period detail.

The strawberry shakes – Sam’s choice – are surprisingly good, thick and cold and rich in equal measure, and Tyra’s right about the burgers. He makes a note to tell Dean, maybe even bring him breakfast.

“Can I have a bite of your burger?” Tyra asks, and the appetite with which she attacks it when he hands it to her makes Sam’s cock pay attention. She’s not one of those dainty nibblers holding back; no, she gives way to her hunger, and he wonders whether she’s like that in the sack – uninhibited, eager – and fuck, it’s been too long, way too long and now he’s sporting bona fide wood.

“Yo, Collette! You comin’ tonight?” one of the high-school boys stops to ask as they leave the restaurant, a big grin on his face; and at least two of the girls eye Sam. “Dolia’s parents are out of town – should be a good one.”

Tyra shrugs, but she glances at Sam, with a hint of speculation, and he feels himself starting to blush.

“You could bring your friend,” one of the girls says as a parting shot, and dissolves into a fit of giggles.

High-school parties and underage drinking and groping in backseats, it all rushes back to Sam’s mind and he’s lightheaded with want. Maybe it’s the constant weight of Dean’s doomed future, or his overwhelming sexual frustration, or the fact he still misses Jess fiercely, but he’s finding his attraction to Tyra fucking irresistible. When he stretches his legs under the table, and his foot brushes hers, he makes a split second call – conscious that he’s making an irreversible and probably very stupid move – and presses against her instep.

Her foot pushes back against his in response and creeps up his leg, stroking his ankle.

“You wanna check out the kegger?” she says, the ghost of a smile flickering across her face.

Oh, he’s so in.

Also, he appears to have regressed to his teens.

“Sounds like a great idea,” he says before draining the rest of his hernia-inducing shake.  
On the way back to the car, Sam casually puts his hand on Tyra’s lower back and she lets him. His heart is racing. It’s official – he is now fifteen; a mere touch is enough to get him aroused. Just as well Dean’s not here to witness it.

The drive over to the party takes maybe fifteen minutes, beer stop included, during which Sam is increasingly aware of Tyra’s presence in the adjoining seat. They chat desultorily; she offers a few insights about the kind of crowd they’re likely to encounter, starting with the football team and their entourage of cheerleaders and rally girls, but Sam’s barely listening. Instead he focuses on the sound of her voice – the lilting drawl – her open laugh, the smell of her shampoo, and, just now, the feel of her hand on his arm when she touches him for emphasis in mid-anecdote.

There’s a bunch of cars parked outside, in front of a #1 sign proclaiming that one of the town’s famed Panthers lives here, a few strings of lights on the porch, and teenagers everywhere, which make Sam feel positively ancient.

In classic small-town fashion, he finds himself under scrutiny from the moment he walks into the party; the guys assessing him silently as a potential rival, the girls shooting appraising glances and whispering to each other. Tyra’s obviously well known, and he gets vaguely introduced to a bunch of jocks and high-school girls, a few adults sprinkled in their midst – former athletes and older siblings, he guesses – and ends up in the backyard with a couple of beers, watching kids dancing to a hip-hop track he doesn’t recognize.

Tyra’s keeping a running commentary by his side, pointing out the members of the football team, several of them complete with their entourage of fawning girls. Man, it must pay to be a Panther in this town. It reminds Sam of his high-school years, his vague attempts at blending in, joining in a few teams, never hanging around long enough to really make it; a soccer trophy or two the only reminders of his brief athletic career.

“See that guy? He’s the quarterback, Matt Saracen – he’s a nice guy, not an asshole like a lot of them. Used to go out with the Coach’s daughter but they broke up last summer,” Tyra whispers in his ear, close enough that he can feel the puff of breath on his neck, triggering a powerful desire to grab her and kiss her. He resists.

“What about the guy in the wheelchair?”

She makes a face and sighs.

“Jason Street. He was the star of the team, broke his spine in the first game of the season last year. Such a fucking waste – he was one hell of a quarterback, and still is one hell of a guy. It almost destroyed the team.”

“But they still made it to state champions, right?” Sam can’t help asking. He’s curious, suddenly, although he really has never paid attention to high-school football (to any kind of football, to be honest). But he’s intrigued by the story behind the tragedy.

“Well, they have a great coach. And there’s other players – like Smash,” she says, nodding towards a black kid talking to the DJ animatedly. “Or Tim Riggins,” she adds with a smile at a long-haired teenager who shoots her a smoldering look.

Even without the intro, Sam would have pegged him as a football player – tall, loose-limbed, Tim Riggins moves with the kind of body awareness that comes with a lot of physical training. He has a girl draped either side of him, and there’s a bottle of Jack in one hand and a beer in the other. He’s exactly the kind of kid Sam hated (and envied, just a little) in school, until he realized that the ability to get good grades and a scholarship to Stanford were worth a lot more than a fleeting talent for sports.

Right now though, there’s something about the way he’s looking at Tyra that makes Sam want to punch Riggins’ lights out.

“Friend of yours?” he asks her, his tone light, but she’s not fooled for an instant.

“You could say that, yeah,” she says, snorting. “Listen, Sam, this is my home town, and…”

“Sorry... I’m just being…”

“… a guy?” she supplies, digging her elbow just under his rib, making him start and provoking, he notices, a glare from Riggins. Definitely an ex-boyfriend.

“More like an ass.”

“Oh, don’t worry – let’s just get ourselves a drink, okay?” and she drags him through the crowd, past Tim and his scowl and his babes, until they reach the kitchen where she scores them a couple of beers and insists on making Sam taste the punch, despite his denials.

“Well?”

He licks his lips, and can’t help but notice her eyes tracking his tongue.

“Strong. Too sweet. Not my kind of drink, really,” he says, but clearly it’s hers because she swigs down another cup of the mixture, while Sam tries not to think about whether this means he might end up taking advantage of an intoxicated minor.

A couple of beers later, he’s relaxed a bit – Tyra’s sipping a beer rather than knocking it back, and looks none the worse for wear. Besides, she’s right against him in the crush – talking animatedly to a girl next to her about some school-related event – and all his attention is focused on the warm feel of her body pressed against his. Someone shoves past carrying a case of beer, and Sam grabs Tyra’s waist reflexively. He finds she doesn’t object when he leaves his hand there, or when he starts tracing the patch of skin between the bottom of her shirt and her jeans with a calloused thumb.

It’s been such a long time since he’s been to anything like this kind of party that it feels totally unreal. All the more so as being here with Tyra keeps flashing echoes of Jess at him. And apart from the oppressive heat wafting in from the open doors, this could be a jock party at Stanford – red cups full of beer, a bottle or two of whiskey being passed around, the occasional joint, with guys talking loudly about football, and smiling pretty girls to keep the nightmares at bay, if only for one night.

For the first time in months – no, _years_ – Sam is letting go.

He decides to reconsider his attitude to the patented Dean Winchester method of blowing off steam when Tyra wriggles in his lap a bit later– they’re sitting in the scrubby grass out back by the pool, getting baked with some of her friends and despite the ropey quality of the local grass, Sam’s definitely loosening up. On impulse, he does what he’s been weighing up for the past two hours and wraps a hand around the back of her head, pulling her in for a quick kiss.

It’s something of a shock – she tastes almost exactly like Jess, except for the unfamiliar taste of her lip gloss, and Sam’s not prepared for the feeling of loss that wells through him, Pavlovian in its immediacy. Luckily someone hands her the joint and she breaks the kiss off before he has to. Maybe he’s not cut out for the Dean approach, not tonight, not with Jess’s secret twin threatening to rip his heart apart, again.

But she’s alive and warm and laughing in his arms again, head tilted as she listens to some guy making a lame joke, and Sam can’t let go. He shouldn’t be doing any of this but he’s unable to stop himself, won’t do it. Maybe it is just a pathetic attempt to recover his past, his lost love; but he needs it. Goddamn, does he need it, as he inhales, nose into the crook of her neck, and loses himself in the illusion of Jess.

Abruptly, though, the mood changes as a knot of people spill out from inside the house, shouting and jostling each other. There’s maybe half a dozen guys involved in some sort of fight, and Tyra’s on her feet quicker than Sam.

“Oh, God, Tim, you asshole,” she mutters, and Sam can make out the lanky kid in the centre of the disturbance, attempting to trade punches with another guy. Apparently the rest of them are trying to stop the fight, but not really succeeding, possibly because they’re all drunker than a bag of skunks. Sam might not be all that sober, but spurred on by Tyra and a few of the other girls, he breaks it up, hauling Tim Riggins out of the scrum by his collar.

“Time to call it a night, kids,” he says, his voice pleasant, but the boys scatter anyway.

Tim is sagging, and Sam is pretty sure that if he lets the shirt go the kid will collapse at his feet – unless Tyra props him up, and she’s looking way too angry for that. He settles for leaning him against the side of the wall, which just about works.

“Jesus, Tim. Can you even stand? What the hell came over you?” Tyra asks.

“He’s an asshole, Collette, give me a break,” Tim slurs. “’Sides, he started it.”

“He started it? Are you twelve?”

The irritation is radiating off her in waves, and Tim flinches.

“How much have you had to drink?”

He shrugs.

“Enough.”

“Well you’re not driving your truck home,” Tyra says, huffing, and Tim rolls his eyes, looking like the pissed off teenager he is. Sam has to stifle a laugh.

Tyra turns at him now, with a pleading look on her face.

“Sam – I know how this sounds, but I really have to get that asshole home, otherwise he’s going to wrap his truck round the nearest tree.”

“Am not,” mutters Tim, who’s slid down the wall and is sitting in an untidy pile on the floor.

“So,” Tyra continues, ignoring him, “I was wondering if I could ask for your help, seeing as you’re my ride. And that this sorry son of a bitch is sleeping on my couch tonight since he had a row with his brother.”

She grimaces as she delivers that last nugget of information, which leaves Sam reeling. He expected the mercy ride home, but this is beginning to sound like he’s being cockblocked by Tim Riggins. It feels _personal_.

Still, he’s never been able to turn down a damsel in distress, especially not when she’s looking at him with the eyes of the woman who’s haunted his dreams for the past couple of years.

“Sure,” he says, and together with Tyra, he hauls Tim up and walks him to the Impala.

“You throw up in the car and I’ll have to kill you,” he warns Tim when he opens the back door, but the kid’s already shaking his head.

“Dude, no way I’d barf in a ’67 Chevy. Nice wheels.”

The ride back to Tyra’s doesn’t take long, and they barely exchange a word on the way, except for Tyra giving directions. When they pull over in front of a one-story house that’s seen better days, Sam wonders if it’s the last he’ll see of Tyra-not-Jess. Somehow, it doesn’t seem right.

Tim’s obviously recovered enough on the way over to haul his own ass out of the car, and he stumbles through the door of the house as soon as Tyra opens it, leaving her and Sam on the stoop. The discomfort is almost palpable, and Sam suddenly wishes he was dealing with something easy, like a werewolf or a chupacabra, because he has no idea how to play this.

“I should probably…” he starts, and Tyra silences him, quite effectively, by planting a kiss on him.

“Hey. Just because Timmy here is a stupid-ass drunk doesn’t mean you have to go,” she says against his mouth, and he takes this as a signal that it’s okay to slide a hand, or maybe two, under the hem of her shirt and on that same stretch of tanned back he was caressing earlier.

“What about…” he says, jerking his head towards the inside of the house, and she laughs.

“I expect Tim’ll be passed out, Mom’s out of town and, well, I don’t think Mindy’s coming home tonight, do you?”

Solid arguments all, and enough for Sam to step in and follow her past the couch where Riggins has collapsed, and into a bedroom that’s mercifully short of teenage girl accoutrements. Tyra might be young, but she’s not given to movie star posters or cutesy stuff, something for which he is profoundly grateful.

Almost as grateful as he is when she pushes the door closed, turns to him with a smile that's nothing short of wolfish, and moves closer, her body angled towards him in an unmistakable signal, feeding all sorts of images into Sam’s head. It’s a jumble of memories of Jess and fantasies of Tyra, and he’s not going to analyze which is which. Right now, he’s drunk and horny and he’s holding the woman of his dreams in his arms, so fuck the consequences.

He presses a kiss on her jaw, nuzzles her neck, and – when she gasps, arching her back into his arms – he swoops in and kisses her properly, a thorough open-mouthed dirty kiss which she returns with passion. In a matter of minutes they’re both scrambling to get clothing off each other while still keeping their mouths fused.

Sam runs his hands down her body, mapping the new-yet-familiar contours. Even in the heat of the moment, he can’t help noting how her breast fit just like Jess’s into his palm; how identically soft her skin feels; how she has the exact same pattern of moles down her side. He lets go of her mouth long enough to tumble her onto the bed and starts working his way down her body, trying to ignore the pangs as he captures a perfect pebbly nipple between his teeth and she moans – loud enough to rouse the comatose football player next door, but Sam’s past caring.

Thank God for the beer and the bourbon and the grass, though, because he doesn’t think he could’ve done this sober. It feels like there are three of them in bed – one of them a ghost, etching every moment of pleasure with grief – but he’s damned if he’s going to give this up, even though he knows it’s not right.

Maybe she feels the awkwardness, or she just likes running the show, because she pushes him off before he gets a chance to go down on her, uses her long legs to topple him sideways onto the bed, and then proceeds to climb over him, her mouth roaming over his chest and abs.

“Jesus, Sam, you sure you’re not an athlete? You sure don’t have the body of an insurance salesman,” she says, breathless, her hands tracing a couple of scars down his side. “Looks like you’ve taken a few knocks, too…”

“Investigator, and some of those fraudsters are bastards to catch – gotta keep in shape…” he says, tailing off as Tyra moves south, her lips ghosting over his by now painfully erect cock.

When she makes her move he lets out a deep breath he didn’t know he was holding, and surrenders entirely to the feel of her mouth on him, soft and wet and – God – tight and deep, too, and he remembers how much Jess loved giving head. He’s so gone he doesn’t even hear the door opening, and the first he realizes Tim fucking Riggins is in the room is the muffled squeak Tyra makes, lips still wrapped around his cock, when a hand makes contact with – presumably – her ass.

As if this set up wasn’t weird enough.

To her credit, she doesn’t stop the incredible action with her mouth, and as a result, Sam fails to react as spontaneously as he normally would, and settles for an angry stare instead of jumping to his feet and shoving the kid right out of the room. Not that Tim’s looking at him, as every fiber in his body is focused on Tyra’s back and ass, which even from Sam’s perspective is an awesome sight. Before he can say anything in protest at Tim’s presence – not to mention Tim’s hand, getting busy between the legs of the very girl giving Sam spectacular head – Tyra dips her head further down, allowing Sam’s cock to hit the back of her throat.

At which point, he just loses the impetus to do anything except close his eyes and moan, loudly, while she swallows around the head of his cock in the most pleasurable way.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he breathes out when she releases him, and he’s regained enough focus to open his eyes again.

Tim’s staring at him, or – more precisely – at Tyra’s mouth on his cock, his pupils blown wide. There’s no doubt that he knows exactly how Sam is feeling right now – hell, Sam wouldn’t be surprised if Tyra learned to do that by practicing with her football player boyfriend in the back of his fucking pickup truck. Strangely, there’s something about that that isn’t as offputting as Sam would imagine, perhaps because it anchors Tyra in her own reality, in her not-Jess world, which is reassuring.

Also, Tim’s presence is making damn sure that this doesn’t feel like a rerun of any of Sam’s times with Jess, because he may have fantasized about threesomes, but Jess wasn’t really that kind of girl. More to the point, Sam’s always been the only guy in those fantasies, and no brawny football player ever showed up in his private daydreams, either before or after Jess.

Right now though there most definitely is one intruding on his reality, but as Tim drops to his knees and starts eating Tyra out sloppily, spurring her to attack Sam’s cock with renewed enthusiasm, Sam decides to ignore him. Well, there isn't actually much decision-making involved, and his brain is the subordinate element here, but the end result is the same.

He's _that_ close to coming when Tyra pulls away with a gasp and arches against Tim's mouth, muttering a string of obscenities that run together in a long moan as her orgasm washes over her. She's fiercely beautiful in that moment, though, head flung back, breasts jutting out, and the expression on her face so open and unguarded that Sam can’t help pulling her down to him and kissing her, with all the pent-up passion and desire he can muster.

Tyra’s writhing against him as they kiss, her heat slick against his rigid cock, her legs parting around his, open and wanting him – and Tim, he tries not to remember, as their gazes cross over Tyra’s naked form. Judging by Tim’s haggard face, he’s completely gone, in a haze of alcohol and sex and God knows what, but Sam has to admire the kid’s stamina, because despite all the intoxicants, he’s sporting the kind of wood that would do any high-school jock proud.

Tyra’s gyrations are becoming more insistent, and it takes every ounce of Sam’s self control to scrabble for his jeans somewhere around the bed and retrieve one of the condoms stashed in his wallet before things go too far and he finds himself starring in his very own after school special.

She helps him fumble the condom on, holding him in position as she slowly descends on him, inch by delicious inch, and Sam has to bite his lip not to shout, the pleasure is so intense. He almost – _almost_ – doesn’t care when the bed dips under Tim’s weight, and another pair of hands starts caressing Tyra’s breasts, pinching and teasing her nipples, making her twitch as she rotates her hips around Sam’s cock.

Goddamn, this is fucked up, and fucking hot, and so conveniently not like anything he’s done before with Jess – whose memory is fading now as Tyra’s presence imposes herself in her own right in his sex-addled brain. He’s both actor and voyeur in this scenario, observing Tyra’s reactions to the twin stimulation of his cock, and Tim’s calloused fingers. He thrusts up into her and she cries out and falls foward, her eyes opening long enough to focus on his.

“Big,” she gasps, angling herself so she’s lying over him, propped up on her hands, and he feels a rush of pride and shame all at once, although she doesn’t seem to be complaining.

He would apologize, but she’s picking up the rhythm and it’s taking most of his concentration to keep in the game, not least as Tim flops forwards with Tyra, closer than Sam would like, and he’s rocking his hips against her ass, in counterpoint to Sam’s slow, forward thrusts.

There’s two sets of arms now bracketing Sam’s head, two sets of knees somewhere around his pumping hips, and Tyra’s clearly entirely into this if the disheveled look on her face is anything to go by, or the cries and moans that punctuate their animal coupling.

Sam’s given himself up to the arousal, the spikes of pleasure as he drives deep inside Tyra’s hot, slick cunt, the perversely exciting contact between his cock and Tim’s, as it slides against her ass. Tyra’s moans have transmuted into near-constant keening as she’s stimulated from all angles, Sam’s mouth on her breast, teeth worrying her nipple, his cock filling her to the hilt; Tim’s hand flicking her clit as he – they – sense her approaching second, or third, orgasm; Tim’s cock against her puckered asshole, teasing her oversensitive nerves and tipping her over the edge, again.

Her climax takes Tim with her and he’s coming with an inarticulate shout, long spurts over her back which Sam can almost see and fucking _feel_ as he in turn lets his much-delayed orgasm rip through him and wring him dry. He doesn’t want to think about the awkward _after,_ and whether he’s going to sleep in the Impala after all; doesn’t want to acknowledge how much he enjoyed this, on a purely physical level at any rate; sure as hell won’t be sharing any details with Dean later. Even though he knows he’ll get some pointed questions, and a few shared snippets of how Dean’s night went, which he neither solicits nor really wants to know about. Ever.

As they all flop over each other, boneless and sated, Sam realizes he hasn’t thought of Jess at all for the past fifteen minutes or so; hasn’t thought about Dean’s predicament for at least an hour. He counts it as a victory. There’s definitely something to be said for the patented Dean Winchester stress-busting method (and for threesomes, apparently).

The aftermath is a bit less awkward than he expected, largely because Tim’s out for the count, so Tyra throws a quilt over him and takes Sam to the kitchen, wrapped in a robe that’s too small for him, and makes them some strong, sweet coffee.

“There’s some leftover ham salad in the fridge,” Tyra says, opening the door. “You want a sandwich?”

Sam’s about to say no, out of habit, but then he realizes he’s starving. It’s either the pot or the sex, but he could eat a horse.

“Sure. You got any cheese?”

“Yeah, I can fix you something. After all this, I think we both need some food.”

She’s blushing as she handwaves in the direction of the bedroom. She’s clearly at least as embarrassed as Sam is – probably more, considering she’s going to have to deal with this after he’s gone, and there’s already history between her and Tim.

He’s trying to recover some sort of composure, and failing.

“Yeah. Well, not that… I don’t know, have you ever…?”

“No! I mean – Tim and me, you know, we used to go out and all, but this? No. Never.”

“Me neither,” he says quickly, to spare her shame. “I didn’t think I’d ever…”

“Yeah, and I bet Tim never thought he’d ever have a threesome with another guy, either,” she says, giggling as she closes the fridge, balancing a couple of covered bowls and some cheese in one hand. “I know for a fact he’s done the Stratton sisters at the same time – he’s fucking bragged about it – but he likes to be the only dick in the game.”

“Um, yeah. Well, no comment,” Sam says, nosediving into his steaming cup of coffee. “And please, no mention of it to my brother.”

“Or my sister,” Tyra adds, and they both start laughing.

As he wolfs his sandwich down, it’s dawning on Sam that he no longer sees Jess when Tyra moves around in the kitchen. Sure, the features are the same, but maybe it’s like knowing identical twins well enough that you can tell them apart – he’s no longer shocked by the resemblance, knows who’s who.

He’s also bone-tired, and wondering where he’s going to spend the night, and whether he needs to get his stuff and hit the Impala. Somehow not as appealing as it was earlier, now he’s actually faced with the possibility.

“You going to help me carry Tim back onto the couch or are you just going to watch?” Tyra calls out from the bedroom, startling him out of his trance.

Tim, who barely stirs while being carted across the living room, is at least 170 pounds of lean muscle, with far too much of it on display since the quilt fell off in the bedroom. But they manage to resettle him on the couch, covered up in case Mindy comes home before he wakes.

“Come on, Sam, come to bed,” she says, and he follows her gratefully.

The sheets are rumpled and still smell of sex; the bed’s a little narrower than he likes – and it’s not like he’s used to sharing, anymore – but Sam could swear this is the most comfortable bed he’s ever slept in. They don’t exactly spoon, but the feel of her warm body next to his is a rare comfort, and he falls asleep faster than he expects. No nightmares, either, which makes a nice change.

Tyra’s still fast asleep when he slips out of the sheets and pads into the bathroom for a quick shower. The snores coming from the living room as he walks out toweling his hair sound reassuring – at this rate there’s no risk of having to face Tim before he leaves, and that, frankly, is how he wants it.

He debates whether to wake Tyra before going off, but he can’t face leaving a note on her pillow, so he leans over and kisses her softly, until she stirs.

“Hey, handsome,” she says, yawning, as she stretches. “You want some breakfast?”

“I’ll pick up coffee on the way, thanks. I’ve really got to get going, Tyra, I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, well, I guess I knew you weren’t a keeper,” she says with a half-smile. “You did warn me you moved around.”

“Yes. But I wanted to thank you for last night.”

“Well, it was… educational…”

“That it was. But no, really – thank you. It… I needed this,” he says, and he realizes that he means it – something happened last night that really changed something inside him.

It’s as if he got a chance to say goodbye, in a weird, fucked-up way maybe, but nonetheless.

Against all odds, this little escapade – with all its drunken debauchery – has provided Sam Winchester with some much-needed closure. That can’t be underestimated.

He kisses Tyra again, more thoroughly this time – morning breath be damned – and gives her one last, lingering hug before walking off into the bright early morning.

***************

“Why am I not surprised?” Sam says as he pulls over in front of the motel room to find his brother sitting on the sidewalk with two duffel bags at his side, chugging beer from a can like it’s not seven am.

Dean just shrugs.

“You’re late. I was expecting you half an hour ago. Got to kill time.”

“And a few braincells,” Sam adds under his breath.

“Anyhow, you can drive,” Dean says as he pops the trunk open and throws their duffels in. “I’m beat.”

The sideways glance he throws Sam is positively dirty. God preserve him from sexual confidences.

“Did you remember to pack my toothbrush?”

“Yes, sissy, I did.”

Sam resists the temptation to roll his eyes.

“So, Mindy’s sister, huh? Let me guess, you didn’t sleep in the car.”

“Shut up, Dean.”

“Oh, I know that tone. Don’t tell me you didn’t get any, Sammy, I can hear the smugness from here,” Dean says, draining the can and balancing it on the dash. “So spill. What was she like? I mean, apart from looking like Jess, which must’ve been… weird.”

“Dean, I don’t want to talk about it, okay?” Sam snaps as he pulls out of the motel parking lot. Silence, and a chance to gather is thoughts about last night, that would be bliss.

But it only seems to egg his brother on.

“C’mon, Sam, if she’s half as limber as her big sister…”

“I don’t want to hear about _that,_ either.”

“Sure you do. How else are you going to learn?” Dean says, reaching into the back seat where, apparently, he’s stashed a few more cool ones, because the next thing Sam hears is the pop of a can being opened, followed by the click of the tape player, and a tiresomely familiar riff.

_“Say your prayers little one/Don’t forget my son…”_

It’s going to be a long, thankless day on the road, he thinks, reaching for sunglasses in the glove box as the glare of the early morning sun hits him full in the face. If he’s lucky, Dean will fall asleep in a couple of beers’ time.

If he’s not – Dean might start singing along.


End file.
